Birds of a Feather
by The Moonlight's Secret
Summary: "Public displays of affection make people very uncomfortable." "Yeah, so...?" Clint tucks his callused hand beneath your chin and angles your head upward to face him. You tense. He leans down to catch your lips against his, his other arm possessively coiling around your waist to pull you close. A re-write of the Winter Soldier. HawkeyeXReader. Written for friend's birthday.
1. On Your Right

_A/N: So this is essentially just a gift for my friend; she's a huge Hawkeye fan, and requested (actually,_ demanded _, rather; let's be honest here) that I write this for her. I've never tried an XReader before, so I guess I'll just give it my best shot and see where it goes! Don't hate me too terribly much if it turns out horrendous._

 _Takes place during the Winter Soldier. Also particularly AU. Will most likely be a slow-burn romance._

 _Disclaimer: I don't own anything associated with Marvel. Would be nice, though._

 _..._

You jog along the track, puffing and steadying your breaths as you make your sixth lap. Sweat peppers the back of your neck and forehead, and you're more than a little winded, but you persevere regardless. Your sneakers thud hard against the concrete with each step, your muscles and shoulders aching from the effort. But you have your reasons for running this particular track today...

Steve Rogers (aka, "Captain America") has arrived at Washington, D.C. recently, according to your co-workers from SHIELD. You were assigned to greet him and help him adjust to present-day life, shortly after he emerged from the ice. Though you only spent a month or so together, you had grown fond of the Captain, training with him daily, eating meals together, and watching modern movies (it was more than a little amusing, trying to explain _Harry Potter_ to him).

It became a sad departure for you when Director Fury assigned you to the Avengers, and you were left behind at SHIELD's headquarters, unable to even join him on the helicarrier. You could only watch, in dismay, as news reports covered the destruction in New York, feeling helpless.

But you knew Fury's reasons, of course; you had to stay behind to train new recruits, and only a select few were allowed on-board the ship. You were one of the higher-ranking agents, yes, but not anywhere near as respected as Agent Romanoff and Agent Barton. So, despite your protests and back-and-forth, heated arguments with Fury, you grudgingly remained back at SHIELD.

Today, though (if the rumors were true), the Super-Soldier himself would be running this particular track, as he had apparently done so for the past few days. You hope to run into him, but your energy is depleting fast, and you wonder whether it's worth it.

Just as you begin to slow to a light jog, debating giving up, a tall, well-built black man jogs past you, breathing hard, his jaw set with determination, sweat beading on the back of his dark neck. You barely so much as blink before a flash of grey shoots past, rocketing in front of both you and the other male up ahead. As the grey blur passes, he announces, "On your left."

It takes you a moment to register the voice in and massive, muscular physique in your head. Then your face splits into a grin. Ah, there he is...

"Hey, old man!" you holler.

Steve Rogers turns his head a degree, but only flashes you a smile before carrying on. You can hear the other man ahead of you muttering irritably to himself under his breath.

It isn't long, however, until he catches up again. You hear his fast and heavy footfalls behind you, and a split-second later, he runs up beside you, saying, "On your right."

You shake your head, grinning to yourself as you watch the blonde idiot antagonize the other man again. For the self-righteous, all-morals guy that he is, he sure is cocky.

After one more lap, you skid to a halt beneath a tree, sinking to your knees, panting. A minute or two later, the man from before joins you, catching his breath. You peer up at him, taking a long swig from your green-tinted water bottle.

"Fun, isn't he?" you remark.

He chuckles, collapsing beside you. You offer him your water bottle and he takes a grateful gulp from it. "That's one word for it, I suppose."

Still smiling, you offer him your hand. "I'm Agent (L/n). You can call me (F/n)."

"Sam Wilson," he replies, shaking your hand with a firm grip. "You know that guy?"

"Uh-huh. I helped integrate him back into the world, so to speak...He's Captain—" you begin to add.

"U.S.A.? Yeah, I figured," Sam intervenes, rolling his eyes. "What with the whole _The Flash_ thing he's got going on..."

Speak of the devil, Steve finally slows to a jog and joins the two of you. He appears to have barely broken a sweat.

"Need a medic?" he teases.

Sam laughs, folding his arms over his chest. "I need a new set of lungs. Dude, you just ran like thirteen miles in thirty minutes."

"Huh...I guess I got a late start."

"Oh, really? You should be ashamed of yourself. You should take another lap." He pauses. "Did you just take it? I assume you just took it."

Smirking, Steve shields his eyes from the sun and nods to you. "Hey, (Name). Long time no see."

"Already back to showing off? Didn't you get enough of that in New York?" you shoot back, (e/c) eyes gleaming impishly.

Steve rubs the back of his neck, one side of his lips still curved upward. "Guess not. What unit are you with?" he adds to Sam.

"Fifty-eighth, Para-rescue. But now I'm working down at the VA. Sam Wilson."

Steve offers his hand to each of you in turn, helping you to your feet. You dust grass off your knees.

"Steve Rogers."

Sam shoots you a side-long glance. "Yeah, I put that together. Must have freaked you out, coming home after the whole defrosting thing."

"It takes some getting used to."

"Have you been doing your homework?" you chime in teasingly.

"Somewhat," Steve admits sheepishly, pulling out a small notebook and ink pen. "I've finished the Star Wars franchise...But not Star Trek."

"How about The Breakfast Club?" you press. "You promised you'd get to that one after the whole Avengers deal."

"Yeah, yeah, I'll get to it soon enough...I still have..." he glances down at the notebook, " _I Love Lucy_ to get to, and I need to try Thai food. Everything's just taking a while for me to adjust."

"Yeah, I'd imagine."

"It's your bed, right?" Sam interjects.

Steve quirks a brow. "What's that?"

"Your bed, it's too soft. When I was over there, I'd sleep on the ground and used rocks for pillows, like a caveman. Now I'm home, lying on my bed, and it's like..."

"Lying on a marshmallow," Steve finishes, and Sam nods agreeably. "I feel like I'm gonna sink right to the floor."

"Missing the old days?" you suggest.

Steve shrugs, cocking his head to the left, considering. "Well, things aren't so bad. Food's a lot better, we used to boil everything...No polio is good. Internet? So helpful! I've been reading that a lot, trying to catch up."

"Marvin Gay, 1972," Sam offers. "'Trouble Man' soundtrack. Everything you've missed jammed into one album."

Steve clicks his pen and sets it to the notebook paper. "I'll put it on the list."

A little blip sounds a second later from Steve's phone and he checks it, frowning. "All right, duty calls. Thanks for the run...if that's what you wanna _call_ running."

You muffle a snicker and Sam scoffs, feigning a wounded expression. "Oh, that's how it is?"

"That's how it us."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Okay. Any time you wanna stop by the VA, make me look awesome in front of the girl at the front desk, just let me know."

"I'll keep it in mind," Steve acknowledges.

You move to pat Steve on the back, preparing to head back home to shower and change out of your workout clothes, when a dark Corvett Stingray pulls up the the curb, screeching to a halt directly beside your trio. The window rolls down, revealing none other than Agent Romanoff. You can only gape at her, astonished. You've never seen Natasha in person before, only heard remarkable stories of her in gossip around SHIELD. She's basically a legend to newer recruits.

"Hey, fellas. Either one of you know where the Smithsonian is?" she asks teasingly, grinning at Steve. "I'm here to pick up a fossil."

Steve half-smiles, shaking his head as he approaches the car. "Hilarious."

Although still somewhat starstruck from the Black Widow's sudden appearance here, you figure it's probably best to head out (asking for an autograph seems like a bit too much). You kneel to pick up your discarded gym bag, prepping to leave, when Agent Romanoff calls out your name, stopping you mid-step.

"Agent (L/n)! Fury wants you in on this, too."

You turn on your heel to face her again, not even bothering to cover the blatant surprise etched into your face. "Me?"

"Yes, _you._ " Agent Romanoff smiles, amused by your reaction. "Now that this old guy is back at SHIELD, Fury wants to keep you guys together, since you're already acquainted. He seems to think it might help."

Stunned, but more than a little excited, you hurry to retrieve up your bag and stand, trying your best (and fail) to not seem like an over-eager puppy just offered a treat. Steve slides into the front seat with Sam on his heels, eyeing Natasha with poorly-disguised interest. "How you doing?" he ventures.

"Hey," is Agent Romanoff's only reply, but her smile remains.

Steve settles in shotgun, flashing Sam a crooked grin. "You can't run everywhere."

Sam chuckles, shrugging as he steps away from the vehicle. "No, you can't."

You tug open the back door and toss your gym bag and water bottle in, hopping inside after them. Only as you climb up to your seat do you realize, to your absolute horror, that there is someone actually occupying the opposite window seat, where you just carelessly threw your stuff. Worse even?

It's Agent Barton.

Shell-shocked at not only meeting another Avenger, but at having just smacked them in the head with a plastic water bottle and duffle bag, you struggle to find your voice. "I—I'm sorry, I didn't—you weren't—" you splutter. You can feel the intense heat rushing to your cheeks.

But Barton only cocks an eyebrow and laughs, his cerulean eyes lighting up with amusement. You blink, again at a loss for words, as he motions for you to shut the door and buckle in. He picks up your fallen water bottle and hands it to you, still smirking. "Do you use these as weapons during combat? If so, kudos. That _hurt_." He rubs a small bruise forming on his temple demonstratively.

You feel faint, busying yourself with your belt buckle to avoid making eye contact with him. "Oh God, I'm so sorry—I just, um—I didn't see you there, Agent. Sorry." He's not bleeding, but you unzip your bag and scramble through it, searching for a bandage.

Agent Barton waves away your apologies and folds his hands behind his neck, shrugging. "No biggie, Agent (L/n)."

"Y-you can just call me (F/n). Again, Barton, I'm so sorry—"

Clint takes your water bottle back from you and lightly taps it against your forehead, cutting you off mid-sentence. "There. Now we're even, (Name). Calm down before you wet yourself." He sets it back down in the car's cup holder, his smile never once fading as he watches your reactions, clearly amused. "And you can call me Clint, then, seeing as we're apparently going on a first-name basis."

You are more than blushing (if possible) now as you turn to face the window, hiding your face from him. This is your first time coming face-to-face with Clint, too-and _wow_ , what an impression you've made. In all of the stories told about his missions, no one ever mentioned how _attractive_ Clint was. You're suddenly quite aware of your disheveled appearance—your messy (h/c) hair tied in a loose ponytail, your sweat, stained clothing...You must look a mess to him.

Clearing your throat, you lean forward. "So, where exactly are we going?"

Agent Romanoff glances at you in the rear-view mirror, a crimson brow raised. "Technically, Agent? The Indian Ocean."

...

 _So yeah, this chapter was really short, but here's what I've got so far. More Barton stuff to come in the next chapter, whenever I can get my unmotivated ass to work on it._


	2. Mission Not-So Impossible

_A/N: So she loved the first chapter, but unfortunately, that means I'm going to have to work harder on updating this (which means less procrastination). Anyway, if anyone else is reading this, I sincerely hope you like it!_

 _Oh, and by the way, since this is a re-write, Hawkeye has no wife and kids, despite Age of Ultron. Just to make that clear._

 _..._

Director Fury has always been a little sketchy when it came to his missions, but this one really takes the cake; in all honesty, you have no clue what you're doing. You figure (and hope) it's not anything bad (SHIELD is the "good guys" after all, right?), but as Brock Rumlow leads you to the front of the plane, the conversation you overhear makes you a little uneasy.

"The target is a mobile satellite launch platform: The Lemurian Star," Brock announces pacing with his hands behind his back. "It was sending up their last payload when pirates took them, ninety-three minutes ago."

"Any demands?" Steve asks.

"A billion and a half."

"Why so steep?"

"Because it's SHIELD's."

"So it's not off course, it's trespassing."

"I'm sure they have good reason," Natasha interjects.

Steve utters a soft sigh, conveying mild annoyance. "You know, I'm getting a little tired of being Fury's janitor."

"Relax, it's not that complicated."

You pat Steve on the arm reassuringly, though you feel your words are mostly for your own benefit. "Fury always has good reason behind his decision-making."

"Define 'good.'"

"Not bad," you reply, and Steve shoots you a look. Clint, on the other hand, merely snorts.

"A sarcastic one, huh? I like you," he remarks. You smile timidly back at him, trying to keep the blood from flowing to your face.

But Steve is not so amused. "How many pirates?"

"Twenty-five, top mercs, led by this guy. Georges Batroc," Brock answers, indicating an image on the monitor. You move in for a better look, peering over Clint's bulky shoulder. "Ex-TGSE, Action Division. He's at the top of Interpol's 'red notice'. Before the French demobilized him, he had thirty-six kill missions. This guy's got a rep for maximum casualties."

"Hostages?" Steve presses.

"Uh..." Brock contemplates the question a moment, running a hand along his stubbly chin. "One officer, Jasper Sitwell." The image flickers on the monitor, now displaying Sitwell's profile. "They're in the galley."

Steve wrinkles his nose. "What's Sitwell doing on a launch ship? ...Alright, I'm gonna sweep the deck and find Batroc. Nat, you'll kill the engines and wait for instructions. Rumlow, you sweep aft, find the hostages, get them to life pods. Get 'em out. (L/n), Barton, you cover Rumlow and make sure no one's hurt. _Let's go."_

Brock nods, saluting Steve as he stands and steps away from the monitor. "STRIKE, you heard the Captain. Gear up!"

You strap on your gear belt and adjust your gun at your thigh, feigning a collected demeanor, despite the overflowing excitement bubbling in your chest. Hawkeye tucks a handful arrows into his black quiver and fixes what appears to be a hearing aid, which you ogle at a moment. Is he partially deaf? You never would have guessed, given how aware he is of his surroundings. Realizing you're staring, you avert your eyes. Unfortunately, Clint catches you.

"Like what you see?" he quips. You open your mouth immediately to apologize, but he cuts you off. "I'm eighty percent deaf. Had a bit of an accident, and my eardrums were blasted out. A friend of mine got me these." He taps one of the hearing aids with his index finger.

"I—I wasn't intending to be rude," you blurt, though he doesn't seem perturbed in the slightest. "I just...you're always so alert that it surprised me a bit...I suppose your sight makes up for it, though."

"Hence the name 'Hawk _eye_ ,' yes," he replies with a lighthearted smirk, and you can't help but smile genuinely back. You've been nothing but a nuisance to him thus far, but if anything, he only appears amused by it.

"Coming up by the drop zone, Cap!" Brock hollers. Having temporarily forgotten the matter at hand, you hurry to tie your hair up and secure your various weapons. Thankfully, you and Steve were given the chance to freshen up and change into your uniforms before boarding the aircraft.

As you approach the now-opening back of the plane, you come in late to Steve and Natasha's conversation. "...too scared?" you hear her ask as Steve grabs his signature shield.

"Too busy!" And with that, Steve flings himself out and into the starless night—without so much as a parachute. Is _he_ crazy, or are you?

"Was he wearing a parachute?" the STRIKE agent shouts over the roaring wind, confirming you're not just seeing things.

Brock only grins. "No. No, he wasn't."

You shake your head; this is nothing unusual of Steve, really. Natasha, Brock, and Clint prepare themselves, equipped with parachutes as they follow suit. As you and Clint spring out together and undo your parachutes, you have a clear view of the action below. Steve is in his element, taking down one pirate on the deck after another, swinging his shield around and using it as both a means of defense _and_ a weapon.

One of the pirates aims a gun at Steve, and you hastily reach for your own, but before you can so much as grasp the handle, Brock has already shot him down. He lands beside Steve, and the rest of you follow soon after.

"Thanks," Steve acknowledges.

"Yeah, you seemed pretty helpless without me," Brock teases back with a light smirk.

Your group then splits up without another word, Natasha with Steve, and you with Brock and Clint. The three of you jog along the deck, keeping a wary eye out for any danger.

"All right, stay close," Brock advises to you and Clint, scoping out the area as you ease the nearest door open. You enter last, clutching your gun at your side.

"What's our game plan for when we find the captives?" You whisper.

"Beat the shit out of the pirates and save the day," Clint replies simply, shrugging as he heads for the stairs. "Not much more to it than that. It—"

You hear the gunshot before you see it. Lunging forward, you tackle Clint to the ground, narrowly missing the bullet as it whizzes past your ear. A few feet ahead of you, Brock reacts like a viper, drawing his own firearm and taking down the pirate in a matter of seconds.

The pirate swears in French as he collapses, oozing dark crimson onto the tile floors. You slowly sit up, turning your head from left to right, making sure the coast is clear before letting Clint up.

You had reacted so rapidly, you hardly even registered what it was that you did. Clint, on the other hand, gives you and approving nod as he stands.

"Well, well (Name). I can see why Fury sent you with us," he applauds. Under normal circumstances, you would've blushed and stammered an awkward reply, but you are in mission-mode currently. Instead, you direct a wide grin at him and mumble a hasty, "Thanks," before you're on the move again. When your lives are not in peril, you will likely look back on this with a giddy, school girl-like demeanor, but for the time being, you're all business.

You encounter about nine more pirates (each of you take down three) before finally reaching the room where the hostages are kept. Brock goes first, stun gun in hand as he rounds the corner. You hear a muffled grunt. As you and Clint peer around the wall, you see the pirate in charge of guarding the door slumped on the ground, unconscious. Brock motions for you to come over.

Together, the three of you assemble a bomb Brock evidently had on his person, setting it directly on the locked door. Into his radio, Brock says, "STRIKE in position."

Over your own ear piece, you hear, "Natasha, what's your status?" from Steve. When she doesn't answer, he repeats, "Status, Natasha?"

"Hang on!"

There are a series of static-y noises indicating a struggle, followed by a dull _THUD._

"Engine room secure," Natasha reports.

You, Clint, and Brock get into position and wait with baited breath, guns and bow and arrows raised.

"On my mark," Steve orders. "Three...two...one."

The door blasts open. Debris fly in all directions, but you don't waste any time getting inside. Clint swiftly draws an arrow and shoots the head pirate, killing him. As Brock ducks down to assess the situation with the hostages, you and Clint take down the remaining pirates, ensuring that each and every one is taken care of before letting your guards down.

"Hostages en route to extraction," Brock says into his radio. "Romanoff missed the rendezvous point, Captain. Hostiles are still in play." He turns to you and Clint, getting back on his feet. "All right. Romanoff isn't answering her radio. You two find her, then report back to me."

"Aye-aye," you answer. Clint's mouth twitches a little into a small smile, and the two of you head back out what remains of the doorway and into the hall. You begin to sprint, hoping Natasha isn't in any critical condition, when Clint plants a hand firmly on your shoulder, stopping you.

You turn to face him, eyebrows raised. "What?"

"(Name), forget about her," he suggests, but seeing the baffled look on your face, he adds, "I'm sorry you and Cap got mixed up in this mess, but Nat and I have a different mission. It's not exactly my place to divulge that information to you, so I'll just say this much: You need to let Nat do her own thing right now."

You stare back at him, bemused, but don't question him further; from the sound of it, Director Fury put them up to this, so you feel it's better to not get involved. "Okay. So then, what do we tell Rumlow?"

"That we couldn't find her. Simple as that." With that, he turns and leads the way down a hall adjacent to the one you're in, indicating with a crooked finger for you to follow. "Everything's secure, so we can start heading back to the extraction point on the deck."

You obediently follow, finally allowing yourself to let the events of today sink in. Although you don't want to inflate your own ego, you're more than a little bit pleased with how today turned out. And hey—you even got a compliment from Hawkeye. Now if only you could get one from Natasha and the rest of the Avengers, you can die a happy woman.

"Nice job today, Agent." You break out of your thoughts to see Clint has come to a stop again, smiling back at you. Now that you're no longer on-edge and hostile, you allow the weight of his words to sink in. You feel your ears grow hot.

"U-um, thanks. That means a lot, coming from you," you mumble hurriedly, cursing yourself for sounding like a starstruck fangirl. Clint only seems flattered, however, and thumps you on the back.

"This may just be my self esteem talking, but I like you, (Name)." Little crinkles form at the corners of his pale blue eyes as he grins. "That bullet almost cost you your entire career back there, but you still risked it to save my neck. Kudos to you, Agent."

You begin to stumble over your words again, overwhelmed by the amount of praise you're receiving from such a highly respected Agent. Is this a dream? You honestly aren't quite sure, but if it is, you hope it lasts a little longer. "SHIELD, uh, wouldn't have hired me if I...er, wasn't, you know..."

"Idiotically brave?" Clint chuckled, folding his muscular arms over his chest. "Not to get ahead of myself here, but seeing as that basically sums up the Avengers as a whole...Well, give it some time, and I think you could make a really good addition to the team."

And you feel like fainting right then and there.

...

 _Sorry for the shorter chapter, but I hope you enjoyed it nonetheless! Once we get past all the first action sequences, I can start to incorporate more HawkeyeXReader stuff in. Yay!_


	3. Calm Before The Storm

_A/N: That last chapter seemed a little rushed/fast-paced for me, so I might go back and edit it...In the meantime, enjoy the next chapter!_

 _..._

You consider following Steve—whether it be to stop him from confronting Fury, or yell right along with him—but an arm cuts out in front of you, making your decision for you.

"Eh, let them work it out," Clint sighs, shaking his head as you watch Steve storm up one of the Triskelion staircases. "He may not seem like it, but Fury knows what he's doing; Steve just can't see that."

You want to voice the fact that you "can't see that" either, quite frankly (after all, you don't like the feeling of being _used_ in your first mission, not truly knowing what you were doing), but you seal your lips shut. Clint seems to have taken a liking to you, and you don't want to ruin his first impression. Instead, you merely nod to acknowledge him, all-business.

Your mission group had returned to the Triskelion, primary SHIELD headquarters, with a fuming Captain America leading the way. With Natasha off working on her own side-mission, and with Steve putting up a hissy-fit, you're left alone with Clint, save for a few SHIELD workers passing you by.

"What, um..." You clear your throat. "What is Fury up to, anyway?"

"I'm not at liberty to say," Clint replies, as you expected, "mainly because I don't entirely know myself." His tone is light, teasing, but you can only manage a tiny smile in return. You had thought once the mission ended, you would each go about your business, returning to your separate duties. Clint, however, seems to see nothing wrong with hanging around you.

"You're so rigid," Clint remarks, sipping at his coffee. He beckons you with a finger, motioning for you to follow him to a stack of wooden crates. The two of you sit side-by-side, legs dangling over the side of the boxes. When you awkwardly clasp your hands together and glance away, he rolls his eyes. "Oh, come on; I'm just trying to be friendly here." He drains the rest of his coffee cup, licking away a last drop still clinging to the corner of his lip. "Tell me about yourself, (Name)."

You're honestly surprised that Clint Barton, Avenger and top-ranking SHIELD agent, wants to know more about an average woman such as yourself. What does he care, when he could be spending his time around people like Natasha and other higher-ups? Is he just playing a cruel joke on you? You swallow, wishing you had a drink of your own to quell the dryness of your throat.

"Well," you begin, "My favorite color is (color). I... like to (list of hobbies), but I don't have a whole lot of free time these days, though, so my outside activities are limited. I like (favorite animal)s," you add awkwardly, not sure what else he wants to know.

"Mm." Clint stares longingly down at his empty cup, as though willing more caffeine to appear. "I do some of those things myself."

"Really?" You glance sidelong at him, still half-wondering if he's messing with you. He seems genuine, though, and you kick yourself for thinking that his only interest is Archery.

"Mm-hm." Clint abandons his Styrofoam cup and leans back, arms folded behind his head as a rest. You can't help but sneak a of couple glances at his thick arms, muscular and well-sculpted, with protruding, bluish veins visible along his biceps. "I myself like the country life. Chopping wood, cooking outdoors...y'know, typical country boy junk."

"I never would have taken you for the type," you blurt. Immediately, your hands fly to your lips, covering them, as though that will pull the words back in. You turn sharply to face him, wondering if he took that the wrong way.

Clint only chuckles (a sound you're beginning to get used to, and coming to enjoy hearing) at your embarrassment. He really does seem to be laid-back, and you feel rather silly, acting so stern. It's how SHIELD taught you to carry yourself, after all. "Wow, I'm hurt, (Name). Do I really look like a city-slicker?"

"No!" You insist, but even that sounds offensive somehow. "I just...I don't know. I didn't think many country-lovers were comfortable working in the big city."

"You get used to it. Besides, noise gets too be too much?" He tapped his ear piece. "I just tune it all out."

As you begin to relax around him, slouching, you find yourself growing bolder. "So, um...what was being an Avenger like?"

Clint's smile wavers, and for a moment, you wonder if you just crushed the mood. "Well, I wasn't really a part of the group for very long," he admits. "Given the whole mind-control deal and all."

You frown at that, wondering if you heard him right. "Mind control?" You knew some of the Agents were brainwashed during the events in New York, but no one told you that Barton was one of them.

"Yeah, mind control." Clint unfolds his arms and sits forward again, seeming unable to sit still. "That God of _Dicks_ played around with my head, so I don't have a lot of recollection of the whole thing." He chewed his lower lip, light blue eyes darkening with the memory. "A lot of, uh...a lot of good people lost their lives because of me."

"Because of _you?_ " you demand, appalled. "But you were mind controlled!"

"Still." Clint falls silent for a long pause, and when he speaks again, the lighthearted feeling has faded. "It's a horrible, invasive feeling, being yanked from your own mind, having your body used like a puppet..."

When he trails off again, you realize you've hit a sore spot. He probably doesn't really want to discuss it, so you hastily change topics. "So, you uh—what's _your_ favorite color?"

Clint flashes you a raised-eyebrow look, but his grin has returned. "Purple."

...

Eventually, you're able to catch up to Steve. If anything, he seems in a worse mood than before, hands balled into fists and jaw set. You hurry your pace, lining up your steps with his.

"Hey, old man," you greet, but he doesn't return your mirthful smile, which quickly falls away. "What's wrong? What did Nick say?"

" _Project Insight_ ," he growls back, teeth grit. You've never seen him look so enraged before. As you begin to jog to keep up with him, Steve gives you a long-winded explanation of Fury's plans, in surprising detail. Clearly, what Fury showed and told him was top-secret, and Steve is usually all for morals and honesty, but he seems quite fine with spilling this information. He must be _really_ upset.

"That's deranged. Fury's lost his mind to whatever took his eye," you huff angrily, shaking your head. "But are you sure you should be telling me all of this?"

"Fury dragged you into this when he sent you on the mission with us," Steve answers, finally slowing to a halt near one of the exits. "It's your right to know what he's up to...Besides, I trust you."

You grin, and for the first time since your run, he smiles back. "I trust you too, Steve," you say warmly. The two of you have spent quite a bit of time together after he was broken out of the ice, after all. "Where are you off to, anyway?"

"Peggy," is Steve's only answer, but you understand. He visits her so often, it must be taking a toll on him, but it's not your place to tell him what to do.

"All right. Bye, geezer."

"See ya, (Name)."

Steve turns to leave, but just as he reaches the door, he pauses. Turning a degree, he rubs the back of his neck and asks, "You know what? Why don't you come over for coffee or something later? I really haven't given you the time of day since New York." He gives you a sheepish smile.

"Oh, Steve, don't say that-you've been busy! I understand." You're somewhat lying, of course. While Steve's been carrying on with his life, you feel slightly abandoned, used. It was nice to have a friend while it lasted, and you want the feeling to continue. "But I'd love to."

"Great. Come by around seven."

With that, he ducks out through the doorway, leaving you alone in the hallway. You're at a loss for what to do at this point, really...Should you tell Fury that Steve filled you in on what's going on? You don't want to get him into any trouble, but you know that Fury won't like it if you're in on his plan without his knowledge. It's hypocritical is what it is, really.

Deciding to put it off for now, you finish up your SHIELD duties and head home to shower and change out of your work clothes, looking forward to spending some time with an old (literally) friend.

...

As you enter Steve's apartment complex, you hear voices upstairs, one of which is Steve himself. You tuck your keys into your coat pocket and curiously peer around the stairwell, squinting for a better look. A very attractive woman with a basket of laundry is standing in front of Steve, who is...flirting? Could it be? Grinning to yourself, you quietly move in for a better look. You manage to catch the end of the neighbor's sentence.

"...already have a load in downstairs, and, uh...you really don't want my scrubs in your machine. I'm just finished orientation in the infectious diseases ward, so..."

"Ah, well, I'll keep my distance," Steve replies, sounding a bit disappointed.

"Well, hopefully not too far."

Poor Steve. It wasn't a total rejection, but you know he's been having trouble getting back out on the "dating scene." Not wanting to intrude, but thinking the conversation has reached an end, you begin to head up the rickety stairs.

As the woman turns to leave, she stops mid-step, remembering something. "Oh, and I think you left your stereo on."

Steve blinks, looking a little unsettled. "Oh. Right, thank you."

"Yeah."

When the woman finally rounded the corner, out of sight, you say, "Hey, she was cute—"

"Shh!" Steve grabs you by the arm, bringing a finger to his lips. Wordlessly, he motions for you to follow him, and you do so, suddenly on-edge. What was going on? You bite back a groan; this is supposed to be a nice, casual evening, not an extension to your work day.

You don't question Steve verbally, but knit your eyebrows together at him as he leads you outside, over to the window to his apartment. He unlocks it, then slides in, grabbing his patriotic shield. Inside, you can hear music playing rather loudly.

Silently, you follow suit. As you land on the carpet, your eyes slowly adjust to the dark, and you make out a dark figure sitting comfortably in the shadows, resting on the couch. Your shoulders tense up, but before you can reach for your handgun, Steve says, "I don't remember giving you a key."

"You really think I'd need one?" the voice shoots back, and you calm, realizing it's Fury. "My wife kicked me out."

"Didn't know you had a wife."

"There are a lot of things you don't know about me."

"I know, Nick. That's the problem."

"Why would you come here?" you inquire. Something definitely doesn't seem right about this...You have a queasy feeling in your stomach.

"Only place I could think of."

Steve switches on the light, flooding the darkened apartment. As Fury's appearance becomes more clear, you stifle a gasp; Fury is badly beaten, blood running from various wounds all across his body. Before you can move even a muscle, Fury turns the light back off. He types something into his phone, then nods for you both to come over.

The text reads, _ears everywhere._

Fury doesn't seem bothered in the slightest that you're there, so he must know that Steve has already filled you in on his plans.

"I'm sorry to have do this, but I had no place else to crash," Fury apologizes, typing another text with a wince; he's hiding it, but he must be in a great deal of pain.

You lean forward to see the text: _SHIELD compromised._

You and Steve exchange a startled look, and Steve continues, "Who else knows about your wife?"

"Just...my friends." _Just us,_ the text reads.

"Is that what we are?"

"That's up to you."

Before either one of you can interrogate him further, the nearest window shatters as a bullet charges through. Glass explodes everywhere, and you race to throw yourself in front of Fury, but it's too late. The Director is hit three good times by the shooter before he collapses in a pool of his own blood. You suppress the urge to scream and curse as you stumble to his side. Both you and Steve lift him carefully, trying to move him into the adjacent room to assess the damage, but after three shot wounds? There's really not much you can do.

"Nick!" you sob, trying to keep a hold of yourself as you kneel beside him, placing a hand over one of his leaking wounds. "Steve, call-"

"No," Fury croaks, gripping you weakly by the arm. He shakily holds out a small object to Steve, his voice strained with effort. "Don't...trust anyone."

And his hand went limp in yours.

...

 _Cliff-hanger (sort of, since you probably all know what happens next...)! Anyway, sorry these chapters are so short; I'm trying to pace myself to keep from stressing out like I usually do. Hope you enjoyed and leave a review if you liked it!_


	4. Crumbling Walls

_A/N: I read my friend's Hawkeye comic book, so she figured that was enough motivation for me to work on the next chapter. Therefore, here's the next update! Thanks for the reviews; they're always helpful :)_

...

You remain kneeling beside Fury's immobile form, a hand placed palm-down over his bleeding chest. The warm blood cakes your hand, and you shudder, but find yourself unable to move. You're not entirely sure how much time passes, but it can't be long; on instinct, you know you must do what you can to try and save him, even if your mind is trying to tell you it's too late.

"Captain Rogers?"

You and Steve both jump, on high alert. You draw your gun and spin around, fighting back hot tears welling up in your eyes. Now is not the time to let your guard down, and you know Fury would reprimand you for letting your emotions take control at a time like this.

Steve's cute neighbor from before pokes her head in, pointing a gun in the room. You circle each other, sizing one another up, neither one lowering your firearm. "Captain, I'm Agent 13 of SHIELD's Special Service." She keeps her dark eyes on you as she speaks. "What are you doing here, Agent (L/n)?" she demands. "I saw you downstairs before, but I couldn't question you without making myself known."

"I could say the same of you," you reply, quirking a brow. You've never heard of this woman, but apparently, she knows you. "How do I know you're even a SHIELD agent?"

Agent 13 nods her head at Steve. "I'm assigned to protect him."

"On whose order?" Steve interjects.

The woman's eyes dart momentarily down to see Fury, suddenly aware of his presence and the blood on your hands. "His." Tucking away her gun, she rushes to his side.

You slowly set your own weapon aside, still wary. Though you don't want to admit it, part of you feels a little agitated that Fury assigned some other Agent to protect Steve. You've known him the longest, and the best; why would he put Captain America under this woman's watch? And not even have the decency to tell you? You ball your hands into fists, but shove the envy from you mind. You can dwell on this later, but right now, there are more pressing issues at hand.

"Foxtrot is down, he's unresponsive," Agent 13 says into her radio, frantic. "I need EMTs."

 _"Do you have a twenty on the shooter?"_ is the somewhat garbled reply.

Surprisingly, Steve is the one to answer. "Tell him I'm in pursuit." He rushes at the window, and you immediately follow, throwing out a hand to try and stop him (though you know it's no use). "Steve—!"

Steve smashes through the window, falling in a heap on the apartment building below. He springs up a moment later, then takes off, shield in hand as he chases down the assassin. You consider giving chase, but think better of it. You're not a serum-induced super soldier, and therefore won't be able to keep up or do half of the shit he does without seriously injuring yourself.

Instead, you watch him go before turning back to return to Fury's aid, heart hammering.

"You better be okay," you order, clutching Fury's cold hand in yours again. "If you die, I'll murder you."

* * *

You stand outside the glass of the operating room, hands clasped together at your middle. You stand together with Steve, silent and still. Though you want to question Steve more about the masked assassin from before, you feel that now isn't the best time to bring it up. Instead, you remain quiet and focus your attention on Fury's body, unable to send your mind elsewhere. You should be used to blood and death by now, but Directory Fury's the last person you'd imagine lying in that hospital bed. Everything seems so...surreal.

"Is he gonna make it?"

You startle and turn, having not realized that Natasha and Clint have joined you two. What a terrible time for them to show up, with you red-faced and stuffy from crying. Glancing away again, you admit, "I don't know."

Agent Romanoff turns her focus to Steve, her expression hard. "Tell me about the shooter."

Steve hesitates. "He's fast and strong. He had a metal arm."

Just then, Agent Hill materialized on your left side, hands linked behind her back. You've never seen her up close before, but you don't want to meet her eyes, for fear of her seeing how bloodshot they currently are. Under normal circumstances, you would begin to flip shit over having this many top-ranked agents surrounding you at one time, but right now, you only feel weak, vulnerable.

"Ballistics?" Natasha asks Agent Hill

"Three slugs. No rifling and completely untraceable."

"Soviet made?"

"Yeah."

"He's dropping!"

You jerk your head upright, suddenly alert as you hear the doctor's sudden shout. The medical personnel begin scattering like ants, hurrying about with surgical tools and equipment. You can only watch the scene play out before you, helpless, hearing the doctors and nurses calling to one another in alarm, their voices distant echoes in your head.

"Crash cart coming in."

"Nurse, help me with the gauzes, please. BP is dropping. Defibrillator!"

Fury begins to flat-line, and you bring your hands up to your mouth, covering it as you feel your own heart nearly stop.

"Charge to one hundred."

"Don't do this to me, Nick," Natasha whispers, voicing your exact thoughts.

"He'll pull through," Clint assures her, but he sounds as though he's speaking more to himself.

One of the doctors prepares a defibrillator, yelling, "Stand back! Three, two, one. _Clear!"_

Fury's body shakes as the machine shocks his chest, but there is no sign of life.

"Pulse?" the first doctor calls to the other.

"No pulse."

"Okay. Charge to two hundred, please. Stand back! Three, two, one. _Clear!"_

You avert your eyes, unable to see Fury's lifeless body writhing with the force of the shocks, feeling as though you might hurl.

"Give me epinephrine! Pulse?"

"Negative."

"Don't do this to me, Nick," Natasha repeats over and over again, like a broken record. "Don't do this to me."

The doctors continue to try and revive Fury to no avail. You feel sick to your stomach and your skin breaks out in a cold sweat.

To your absolute horror, the first doctor says, "What's the time?"

"One o' three, Doctor."

"Time of death, one o' three A.M."

In your peripheral vision, you see Steve take off down the hall, his head down. You consider following him, but you feel your consolation won't do any good here; he probably needs some alone time.

Come to think of it, so do you. Talking to Steve would be all well and good, but he hasn't known Nick the way you did, and you feel he won't be of much help with your despair.

You duck into the nearest room—a break room, it would seem—and sink to the ground at the farthest corner possible, cramming yourself in between the refrigerator and the wall. The initial numbness is seeping away, leaving you shaking and grief-stricken. What the hell had happened? Fury was your mentor, your friend...When you first started here, he took you "under his wing," so to speak. You'd felt special, in a sense, as many of your peers were taught by lesser-known Agents, people of lower rankings.

But Fury must have seen something in you, and he did his damnedest to kindle it. He was even like a father to you, if you were honest with yourself...You were so naive, thinking nothing could ever happen to Fury, that he was the one person who couldn't possibly ever be taken down. The very thought never once crossed your mind, not once you'd seen what he was capable of.

You dig your nails into your knees, angry with yourself, with the assassin, with the world...You begin to let the tears flow freely now, your face wrinkling up as you let a small sob escape you. You know that SHIELD and Fury have enemies, but you can't even begin to think of who would actually kill him, let alone be _able_ to kill him—

"(Name)?"

You jerk your head upright, startled. Clint stands in the doorway, his muscular shoulder leaning against the framing. Hastily, you wipe your eyes on your sleeve, hoping there's no snot or anything like that on your face. Why is it every time you two meet, you look an absolute, disgusting mess? You hurriedly stand, hoping to regain your professional demeanor, but bang your head on the shelf above.

You fall right back down with your hands clutching your head, face and ears burning with embarrassment. God, it's a wonder Clint even still hangs out around you...

But Clint has only compassion in his pale, blue eyes as he kneels in front of you, placing a hand surprisingly gently on your shoulder. "You okay?"

"Y-yeah," you lie, on two different levels. You're heart is heavy with grief, and your head hurts like a motherfucker, but you refuse to let him know that.

Shocking you even more so, Clint lowers one hand to your waist and the other to your back, pulling you flush against him. He rests his chin in your hair, and you can hear your own heart beating erratically. "You can't lie to a trained professional," he points out.

You hesitantly set your own chin atop his right shoulder, but don't move your hands to hug him, for fear that this is either a dream, he's not real, or you might seem pathetic. It's nice to have his arms around you, though. He's strong, but his grip betrays this fact, his hands gently cradling you to him. He's warm, you note.

"How long did you know him?"

You shrug against his chest. "Oh, man, I-I...I don't even remember, it's been so long." The words spill from your lips without a barrier. "I mean, maybe it wasn't even that long, I don't know—but it sure seemed like an eternity. After he saved me from Hydra's experimentation, I...it's like he was a father to me. A distant one at times, maybe, but..." You shrug again, feeling like you're rambling. You've probably said too much.

Clint releases his grip on you, and you reluctantly part from his warmth. "Hydra?"

You wipe your eyes, nodding. "Yeah, it's that German organization fro—"

"Yeah, I know." Clint's piercing gaze makes you look away. "But you said he saved you from it?"

"W-well, not personally, no," you acknowledge. "Nick sent some SHIELD agents to help me. I owe him my life, really." This is not something you would typically share with anyone outside of Steve, but there's something about Clint that just seems familiar and comfortable, like you've known him your whole life. It sounds silly, honestly, but you feel so at ease with him here now.

Clint's fallen silent, and you feel the air begin to grow tight, awkward. You're trying to think of something to say when Clint suddenly stands abruptly, and offers you his hand.

"C'mere. I want to show you something."

You blink up at him through a few stray tears, taken aback by his sudden demand. But you take his hand nonetheless, and he helps you to your feet. As soon as you're standing, he leads the way down the hall, motioning for you to follow. You've no idea where you're going, but he seems adamant that you go together. Clint doesn't say a word the whole way down, until you reach one of the rooms on the bottom floor.

"I'd like you to meet someone, (Name)." He smiles toothily, then unlocks the door and lets you in first. What you see is the last thing you'd expect:

A dog.

The golden-colored canine hops to its feet, its tail wagging excitedly. It's missing one brown eye, which reminds you painfully of Fury. Before you can even speak, it comes running at Clint—a blur of fur and paws—and practically throws itself at him.

Chuckling, Clint greets, "Hey, bud," scratching him behind the ears. "This is Lucky, my friend. Lucky, this is (Name), my other friend."

Friend? Not co-worker? Huh. He _did_ just essentially cradle you while you probably got snot and tears all over his clothes, but you hadn't even considered the fact that you were actually becoming more than casual acquaintances.

Lucky peers up at you with his one eye, his tongue lolling comically out the side of his mouth. He leaps at you, too, licking your face and leaving it covered in a trail of slobber. You giggle and rub him under the chin as he bounces about, already feeling immensely better. "Aw! What a cutie."

You appear to be in another break room, as Clint maneuvers around you to get to the fridge. He tugs it open and removes a poorly-wrapped object in aluminum foil, revealing a slice of pepperoni pizza. Wordlessly, he tosses it on the ground.

Lucky abandons you momentarily, bounding across the room to gobble up the slice of pizza. You arch a brow at Clint, smiling. "Pizza?"

"It's his favorite." Clint returns to where you're now sitting (having been knocked over by Lucky), settling down beside you. "He was hit by a car and beaten by these fuckers a while back, but he's in perfect health now. Aside from the one eye, that is," he added, grinning down at you.

You hold out your hand and Lucky comes barreling back at you, nuzzling his muzzle against your arm. _"Beaten?_ God, that's awful. Who would do that to a dog?"

"Exactly what I said."

You smile sidelong at him as you pat Lucky on the head, your (e/c) eyes meeting his. He's obviously trying to cheer you up, and it's working swimmingly.

But what you haven't considered up until this point is how Hawkeye is feeling. He's one of Fury's best agents, so they must have been close. Clint's good at hiding his emotions with a smile, but the joy doesn't reach his eyes.

"How are you doing?" you ask. "I imagine, um...you and Nick were—"

"Yeah." Clint sighs through his nose and leans back, letting Lucky (who is far too big for a lap dog) crawl into his lap and curl up. "We worked together a long time, him and I..." He folds his arms behind his head, seeming lost in thought. "I don't think he's really gone, personally."

You frown, shooting him a questioning look. "We _saw_ him die, Clint."

"And what, you don't think he could've pulled a Sherlock Holmes?" Clint sneaks a glance at you, then seems to regret his words. "Sorry. I'm not meaning to sound uncaring, I just...I don't think Fury would be taken down that easily."

"We can only hope, I suppose," you murmur. Lucky's tail wags idly, thumping against your arm. "I like your dog," you add.

"He likes you, too." He flashes you a broad grin, and for a moment, you wonder if his words have a double-meaning. You immediately correct the thought, however—such a silly thing to even consider.

After a long pause, consisting of only Lucky's panting and the hum of the air conditioner, you ask, "Do you really think Nick could've faked his death?"

"Might just be wishful thinking here, but yeah, I do."

You're not sure what it is about Clint, who you've only just met days before, but you feel like he's someone you can trust (despite Fury's dying wish of "trust no one"). You let your head fall against his shoulder, and he jolts a little, obviously surprised at you finally relaxing around him. He turns his head to look at you, a smirk on his face.

"I knew that stick couldn't have been jammed _too_ far up your ass," he remarks, and you playfully nudge him in the ribs.

...

 _I wrote this at like 2:00AM, after eating a bunch of mozzarella sticks and cream soda, so forgive any mistakes/grammatical errors._

 _Review, please! Thank you 3_


	5. Friendship, or?

_A/N: I'm being forced to do updates, at risk of having my friend give me disapproving looks every ten minutes. Help._

 _..._

 _Bang!_

The loud, resounding knock on the door startles you awake. You jolt, colliding heads with someone as you jerk upright, immediately alert. You wince, but the pain in your head is not nearly comparable to your realization that you've knocked skulls with Hawkeye.

Damn. It's embarrassing enough to realize that you fell asleep against his shoulder, but now you've just butted heads with him, too.

"Why is it," Clint groans, rubbing the side of his temple, "when we're together, I always end up with a head injury?"

You rush to apologize, but in all the excitement, Lucky has awoken, too, and muffles your speech by licking the entirety of your face. Clint doesn't actually seem mad, at least (it's a wonder why, though; he must be a very patient man), but his attention is now on the door.

"Yeah?" he calls.

The door swings open, and in storms Natasha. Lucky springs away from you and rockets toward her, his tail whapping Clint in the face. Unfortunately for the dog, Natasha is all-business and slams the door, ignoring him for the time being as she makes her way to the center of the room, her expression stern.

"What's going on?" you ask, suddenly aware of your red eyes and stuffy nose. It seems you just can't get a break when it comes to appearances around these two.

"It's Steve," she answers, sounding on-edge. "I can't give you the full run-down, but basically, SHIELD's turned on him."

"What!" You're on your feet in seconds, and Clint follows suit. "What do you mean? Why's SHIELD-"

"Like I said, too much to explain," Natasha cuts in. "I can fill you in on the way, so long as you answer me this: Do you trust Steve?"

"W-well-yeah, of course! But why's that-?"

"Good." Natasha doesn't ask the same of Clint, only giving him a simple nod, which he returns. You figure they've known each other long enough to trust each other blindly. "Agent (L/N), I realize this is a lot to ask of you at once, but you're going to just have to go with it. C'mon; we need to get a move on."

You're baffled, but it's not the first time you've been given simple orders, no questions asked. Still, you have to fight hard against the urge to interrogate her about Steve. What the hell is going on? What would make SHIELD turn on Captain America?

Natasha hands Lucky's leash to you, forcing it into your hands. "Walk fast. If Steve's in trouble, then I'm sure you'll be next."

"Why (Name)?" Clint demands, before you can. You're surprised by him finally entering the conversation, but glad that they both seem to be on your's and Steve's side.

"They were together the night Fury was killed; not to mention the fact that she's known Steve better than anyone else in this time period."

Well, great. You weren't expecting a _relaxed_ life as an agent, but this? This is just too much. One minute Fury's dead, the next you're crying on Hawkeye's shoulder, now you and Steve are enemies of SHIELD?

Thankfully, you don't have the time to process all of this. Natasha leads the way promptly from the room, adding in a low voice, "Keep Lucky by your side, and your eyes down. Hopefully, we can get out of here before they see you and decide that you're a threat, too."

Lucky grins up at you, his tongue lolling from his mouth and tail thumping, not a care in the world. You swallow hard and stride forward, head bent and eyes focused on your feet as you walk. _SHIELD must be drunk or something_ , you think. To make an enemy out of _Captain America?_ What were they thinking?

Sure enough, Lucky distracts the passing agents, who don't give you a second look. You follow Natasha and Clint to the parking lot, where you climb into her car and settle in, all letting out a collective breath

"If they haven't started looking for you now," Natasha says as she turns the keys in the ignition, "they will be."

Despite the passenger seat being open, Clint seats himself beside you in the back. "Where are we headed, Nat?"

"We're going to pick up Steve, change clothes, and head for the mall."

"The mall?" you interject.

"Yes." Natasha doesn't elaborate.

The sequence of events that follow nearly pass in a haze. As Natasha promised, you pick up Steve, who's hiding out at Natasha's house ("Not for long," Natasha adds. "They'll be checking my place next."), and change into "civilian" clothes. You feel a little weird, dressed casually in jeans and a hoodie with the words, "(Favorite Band Name)" printed on the front, but it's hardly the strangest event of the day.

Your group reaches the entrance to the mall, and you can't help but notice how conspicuous you must look. "Should we split up?" you suggest.

"We will, once SHIELD is on our tail," Natasha assures you.

"How will we know when they're following?" Steve adds in.

"We'll know." She extends a hand and latches onto his shoulder, slowing him. "Although they'll be here sooner if you keep up that pace. First rule of going on the run is, don't run, walk."

"If I run in these shoes, they're gonna fall off," Steve points out, but he slows his stride to meet the rest of you.

The four of you duck into the Mac store, where Natasha pauses in front of one of the computers and promptly begins typing away. "The drive has a level six homing program, so as soon as we boot up SHIELD will know exactly where we are."

"How long until they reach us, Nat?" Clint puts forward.

"Uh...about nine minutes from..." Natasha fishes a flash drive (which, as Steve explained to you earlier, is what Fury handed him before his death) into the MacBook Pro. " _Now._ Fury was right about that ship, somebody's trying to hide something. This drive is protected by some sort of AI, it keeps rewriting itself to counter my commands."

"Can you override it?" Steve demands.

"The person who developed this is slightly smarter than me. _Slightly._ " She smirks, and no one makes and jest against her; after all, Natasha _is_ brilliant both in her physical capabilities _and_ mental. "I'm gonna try running a tracer. This is a program that SHIELD developed to track hostile malware, so if we can't read the file, maybe we can find out where it came from."

"Can I help you guys with anything?"

You jolt, having been so invested with what's on the computer that you did not notice the employee hovering nearby.

"Oh, no," Natasha insists. "My fiancé was just helping me with some honeymoon destinations."

Steve seems taken aback, and he hurries to keep up with her improve. "Right! We're getting married."

"Yes, because he never would have guessed that," you mutter to Steve, who elbows you playfully in the ribs.

The employee, however, seems none the wiser. "Congratulations. What about you two?" He focuses his attention and you and Clint.

"Oh, we're the Best Man and the Maid of Honor," Clint announces, saving you from having to come up with a poor excuse. "And you know what they say about the Best Man and Man of Honor, come the wedding day," he adds with a wink, bringing a fresh renewal of color to your face.

"Ah, gotcha. Where are you guys thinking about going?"

Steve glances hastily at the monitor. "New Jersey."

"Oh." The employee hesitates, squinting at Steve, his eyes narrowed. _"Hey..."_ Recognition etches his features.

You tense and glance apprehensively at Clint, preparing for the worst. Fortunately for your group, the employee suddenly laughs.

"I have the _exact_ same glasses."

You relax, sighing through your nose in relief. If he had recognized Steve, you'd all be in immediate trouble.

"Wow, you two are practically twins," Natasha remarks, sarcasm thick in her tone.

"Yeah, I wish," the employee acknowledges wistfully, giving Steve a long look. " _Specimen."_ He clears his throat. "Uh...if you guys need anything, I've been Aaron."

"Thank you."

The moment Aaron is gone, Steve shifts into work-mode. "You said nine minutes, come on," he presses.

"Shh, relax," Natasha coos. Then: "Got it."

You lean in to examine the screen, which reads that the signal is coming from Wheaton, NJ.

Natasha eyes Steve expectantly. "You know it?"

You recognize the location immediately as Steve's old training site; he's told you about it before, but even with you, he was cagey, so you imagine it's a sore spot for him.

Steve only shrugs. "I used to. Let's go." He pulls the flash drive from the computer and tucks it in his pocket.

"We need to split," Natasha adds. "Me and Steve, (y/n) and Clint. But stay close by, within sight. From here, I can already see two tracking us."

"Gotcha," you confirm.

"We'll converge in the South parking lot and go from there," Clint suggests.

You and Clint leave the store first, with Natasha and Steve following thirty seconds after. You keep within hearing range of them, but act casual, pausing at a little I-Phone case stand. You keep an eye on the other two as they hover nearby; you can see Steve and Nat fake-laugh, and they head for the nearest escalator.

Clint follows them and puts on a pair of sunglasses, as though that will make him less noticeable. You pause in front of a jewelry store, feigning interest in the window display, then continue on after Natasha and Steve.

"Shit," Clint whispers. You follow his gaze and see two SHIELD agents coming in the opposite direction, headed straight for you.

This is bad. You're pondering ducking into the nearest Forever 21 when Clint suddenly snorts. You turn to face him, wondering what could possibly be amusing about this situation. "Nat's got the right idea," he murmurs.

"What?" you ask, aware of the agents drawing nearer, each heartbeat bringing them closer and closer... "If you have a plan, you're probably going to want to let me in on it soon."

Clint only smirks and shifts so that he's standing sideways, and though he has sunglasses on, you can feel his gaze burning down onto you. "Public displays of affection make people very uncomfortable."

"Yeah, so...?"

Clint tucks his callused hand beneath your chin and angles your head upward to face him. You tense. He leans down to catch your lips against his, his other arm possessively coiling around your waist to pull you close.

Your mind melts, as does your body, as he draws you flush to him, your faces somewhat covering one another. It's a good idea, you'll give him that-but you're too shell-shocked to really go with it at first. You stare blankly up at him as he works his mouth against yours (expertly, if you may add). Slowly, carefully, you ease into the kiss and let your eyelids flutter shut, wondering subconsciously whether you're actually supposed to join him or not.

Apparently, you did the right thing; Clint becomes more forceful, even demanding as he has the _audacity_ to prod your lips with his tongue! Not that you mind, of course, but you wonder whether he's just _really_ getting into character, or if...

 _No._ NO. _Stop it!_ you chide yourself. These are... _strange_ circumstances, yes, but that doesn't give you the right to go reading into things that aren't actually there.

The whole tongue-down-throat thing is overdoing it a little for an act, though; you'll at least grant yourself that much.

You're not entirely sure how much time has passed, but one thing's for certain: The SHIELD agents are long gone. As much as you'd like this to continue (despite your mind furiously denying it), you remember the fact that you're on duty, and therefore mumble a very muffled protest against him. Immediately, he pulls away from you, lowering his hand from your chin almost reluctantly.

Wait, reluctantly? Oh, lord. You have _got_ to stop this. Agent Barton's a top-ranking spy, agent, and master with a bow and arrow. What exactly makes you think you have even a _sliver_ of a chance with him, honestly? This is what you keep telling yourself, at least, to get your frazzled mind back on track.

You clear your throat awkwardly. "Um...nice plan."

As expected, Clint seems completely unfazed by the whole thing. He runs his tongue along his own lips as he looks down at your crimson-cheeked, stammering form, bringing an electric shock of sorts to your spine. Okay, chance with him or not, you have to admit-he's really sexy, and you swear he's doing all of this _on fucking purpose!_

"Not bad," he decides, and you glare up at him. He chuckles. "Kidding. C'mon, we're only a few department stores down from the parking lot."

You nod and follow him wordlessly, but your entire mind is practically screaming.

...

 _A/N: Short chapter, but at least there's finally some fluff, so hey. I would've updated yesterday, but was down. Anyone know why? It seems to be doing that a lot lately._

 _Review, please!_


	6. On the lam

_A/N: Given the past 3 smileys, and a few other small reviews, I'm hoping this means you guys are enjoying/don't really have any critiques to make (wishful thinking). Anyway, I'm still working on the next chapter for my Loki fic, but my friend is forcing me to do this chapter, so...yeah._

 _..._

You nod off slightly, resting your forehead against the car window as Steve drives your "rogue" group to New Jersey. Just as before, Natasha is in the shotgun seat, and Clint dozes beside you, his head lolling and bobbing with the gravelly road. He rests his cheek against his fist, his long legs sprawled out as far as they can in the cramped back seat.

Since the stunt Hawkeye pulled back in the mall, you've been... _off,_ somehow. You don't know entirely how to describe the emotion, but your stomach feels as though its competing in the gymnast portion of the Olympics. You've never really believed in "sparks" or any of that nonsense (though, then again, your job has left you with very little time to romp around with guys), but the moment Clint's lips touched yours? Holy shit. _Fireworks._ Your entire body and mind had exploded and lit up like the Fourth of July, all excited and energetic, but at the same time, you also felt...comfort. Warmth. Something about it just felt _right._

You glance at Clint, chiding yourself internally for acting like such a silly little schoolgirl. You're a professional; Natasha did what she had to doe without batting an eye, so why is it that you can't keep yourself together? Your eyes find Clint's lips. Given his overall rugged appearance, you would've thought his lips would be dry or cracked. Instead, they're soft and pliable, wet and welcoming, and you find yourself longing for his touch. You've never been one to get all hot and heavy over attractive guys, but maybe that was because most of them didn't give you the time of day.

Clint, on the other hand, is not only a walking god of sex, but actually legitimately enjoys your company. He _listens_ to you.

Then again, Steve is more than a little handsome, and he's been nothing but amiable and fun in your presence...So why don't you feel this attraction to him? Honestly, he's more like a brother to you than anything else, but with Clint...

For a heart-stopping moment, your gaze travels up and away from Clint's lips, and to your horror, his pale cobalt eyes are wide open.

Immediately, and without the slightest discreetness, you jerk your head away from his, staring into your lap. How long has he been awake? Did he see you staring at his mouth, like a fish out of water?

A deep chuckle answers your question. "Didn't know you were a voyeur, Agent (L/n)," Clint remarks, amused.

"I...I was just spacing out," you lie.

"So, daydreaming?" he suggests. You nod. "Ah. I'm going to take a stab here and guess it was about moi?"

Your face bursts into blooming red like a carnation. "Wh-what? No! That's not what I-"

Clint only smirks and pokes you in the center of your forehead with his index finger. "Just teasing. Though I can't fathom that you _wouldn't_ be fantasizing after our little skit."

Natasha stifles a snort from the front seat, and your embarrassment increases tenfold. How the hell are you supposed to respond to something like that? Thankfully, Natasha intervenes by striking up conversation with Steve.

"Where did Captain America learn how to steal a car?" she pries.

Steve is no-nonsense, his eyes glued to the road. "Nazi Germany."

"Mm."

Steve eyes her sidelong, his expression displeased. "And we're borrowing. Take your feet off the dash."

Natasha slowly complies, a crimson brow raised questioningly, a wry smile on her lips. "Alright, I have a question for you, of which you do not have to answer. I feel like if you don't answer it though, you're kind of answering it, you know?"

"What?"

"Was that your first kiss since 1945?"

You feel a laugh bubble up in your chest, but you bite your tongue. If you tease him, it'll probably invite Clint to do the same to you.

Steve shifts in his seat, uncomfortable. "That bad, huh?"

"I didn't say that."

"Well, it kind of sounds like that's what you're saying."

"No, I didn't. I just wondered how much practice you had."

"I don't need practice."

"Everybody needs practice."

"It was not my first kiss since 1945. I'm ninety-five, I'm not dead."

"But all things considered," you interject, unable to help yourself, "you probably shouldn't be kissing anyone under eighty; you're too old to be hitting on 'the young people.'"

Clint and Natasha laugh, and though Steve doesn't, you see him smile in the mirror. "Don't make me come back there," he warns playfully.

Natasha and Steve continue their banter, but Clint re-directs your attention from them. "So," he begins, folding his arms behind his neck casually, his piercing eyes never leaving your face. "You were telling me about yourself before, with Fury?"

You frown, wondering where he might be going with this.

"Well..." Clint runs a hand idly through his hair. "You were pretty vague before. Not to push you into saying anything you don't want to, but exactly what happened with you and Hydra, anyhow?"

Swallowing, you fiddle with a loose string on your hoodie. It's not that you're uncomfortable with sharing, so much as you're confused and startled by his interest. Steve has his own background of issues, and you've both shared them with each other, but it was mostly because you _had_ to, as his assistant. Other than that, he never really openly asked you about yourself. No one really does.

"Sorry," Clint interrupts your thoughts when you don't reply. "That was too forward of me-"

"Oh, no! It's not that," you assure him. "I was just getting side-tracked...Um..." You rack your brain furiously, trying to think of where to start. "Well, when I was a kid, I lived in Germany. When the war started, my older brother was drafted." You choose to leave out the bit where you never saw him again. "We were against all the bullshit the Nazis were doing, and despite not being Jewish, supporting them was enough basis for them to be slaughtered."

You fall silent a moment, thinking. You don't want to sound like a sad sack, but it's hard to sugarcoat the story. "I was really young. They spared me, but...at a price. I was handed over to Hydra; they were trying to replicate Captain America's serum at the time, and I was one of the guinea pigs." You involuntarily shudder, drawing up your arms around yourself, as though trying to hug away the memories. "I was one of few who actually survived the experimentation. When they failed and Hydra supposedly collapsed, the remaining undercover agents took me with them to America.

"They used me mostly as a means of negotiation, but I did learn a lot of my basic training from them. There were very few Hydra agents left clinging on to their organization, but when I was about..." you scrunch up your nose, "sixteen or seventeen-maybe even younger-SHIELD intervened and got me, as well as the other remaining 'hostages,' out of there. They originally weren't going to risk their agents to save a couple of kids, but...Nick insisted upon it. For that, I owe him my life."

You manage to smile at Clint, though it's barely even halfhearted. "He personally taught me a lot, and helped me through the whole situation. I don't really remember my own family that much anymore, so...really, he was the closest thing I had."

A silence falls again between you two, though Natasha and Steve continue on. They've likely overheard your conversation, but are too polite to make any remarks.

Without warning, you feel two familiar, bulky arms curl around your shoulders. Lightly, Clint pulls you to him, maneuvering you so that your head falls on his shoulder. You initially stiffen, but the almost protective grasp he has around you makes you relax.

"I'm sorry, (Name)," he murmurs against your ear. "I didn't mean to dredge something like that up at a time like this..."

You shake your head against him. "No, it's not your fault. It actually...feels good to get all of this off my chest. I haven't really talked about it with anyone in a long time."

Clint absentmindedly strokes your arm. You're not sure when you're relationship got to the point that you can just flop over on him and have it not be awkward, given that you've only been acquainted for a few days, but it's as though you've known him your entire life. There's just something about Clint that says "home."

The car jerks to a halt outside an old, abandoned military base that you immediately recognize as Steve's old training grounds. You sit upright and reluctantly pull yourself away from Clint's heated body, feeling suddenly bare without his touch. You hug yourself again, needing the reassurance.

"This is it?" Steve asks.

"The file came from these coordinates," Natasha confirms.

"So did I."

"We should wait until nightfall to investigate," Clint puts forth. "Even here, it's not safe to go waltzing around in broad daylight."

Steve kills the engine. "So what, we just hang around in here until dark?"

"It's already evening; I'd wager we only have an hour or so before we'll be sufficiently covered."

You unbuckle your seatbelt and draw your knees up to your chest. "Why do you think the coordinates led us here? I mean, it's such a...weird coincidence, don't you think, Steve?"

Steve doesn't answer. He's staring out through the windshield of the car, his gaze vacant. You realize he must be lost in his own thoughts, reminiscing about his time with the army. It seems you're not the only one having to deal with your past.

"Have I made you uncomfortable?"

You turn and cock your head at Clint, bemused. "What?"

"I've just been screwing with you mostly, but..." Clint shrugs. "I have a bad tendency to be a little too overbearing sometimes."

"Like Lucky," Natasha adds. "They always say pets look like their owners, after all. And I'd say the resemblance is uncanny."

"I'll take that as a sincere compliment." Clint eyes you again, awaiting an answer.

You shake your head, and a legitimate smile perks your lips. "No, you haven't. In fact, it's refreshing; everyone at SHIELD is so detached and formal, so it's a welcome change to have someone not so...uptight."

The smile's infectious, and Clint grins back at you. "I'm glad." He clears his throat, then gives you a little pat on the shoulder. "Y'know, I'm thinking we must have known each other in a past life."

"Yeah? I thought that, too, actually." You feel almost exactly the same, to be honest. Sudden intimacy would normally make you retreat into the farthest corner possible, but with Clint, it all feels natural. At this point, regardless of his feelings towards you, he'll at least make one hell of a friend.

Of course, Clint has to screw up this notion. "Yeah. I bet we were lovers." He plants a little peck on your temple, then leans back in his seat and shuts his eyes, not at all bothered by the fact that you're essentially melting into the car seat.

If this is how things continue to go, Clint will be the death of you.

...

 _A/N: I thought this chapter was longer, but the word count says otherwise. I think it's lying to me, personally, but if not, sorry for the short update! I hope you enjoyed it regardless, especially with all the background information on "You." Honestly, this xReader is difficult for me because I like to develop characters, so sorry if any of this contradicts with how you yourself would act, but...yeah._

 _Anyway, remember to review!_


End file.
